


Mid-Century American Nightmare

by beyhr



Category: Naruto
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1970s, M/M, Murder Mystery, actor hidan, please picture all clothes/furniture/etc as hideous as possible, private investigator kakuzu
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-25
Updated: 2018-10-24
Packaged: 2019-08-07 05:28:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16402178
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beyhr/pseuds/beyhr
Summary: “Yeah?” came a voice from inside, muffled, “Who's that?”“Private investigator.”“Wh— I didn't do anything recently— oh, right.” There was a shuffling sound, then the door swung open. Hidan leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He looked Kakuzu up and down, then an expression of recognition came over him. “Hey, you’re that guy from last night, right?”





	Mid-Century American Nightmare

He didn't know how he always got roped into these things. And on his only night off, too. Kakuzu wanted nothing more than to go home and sleep, and yet here he was, driving to a party he doesn't want to go to, to be around people he hates. _This is what I get for making friends in movies_ , he thought, _Good-for-nothing, entitled pieces of_ —

He slammed hard on his breaks to narrowly avoid rear-ending the car in front of him, having encountered unusual traffic on the exit. The hell was this? There was never traffic at this time, and here of all places… _Must be_ some _party_ , he concluded. 

Now there was no way for him to change his mind. He was trapped in a long line of cars, as far up the hill as he can see. Not that he was going to change his mind— he's nothing if not a man of his word, and he _did_ promise Sasori he'd attend. Still, the thought of the crowd was disheartening, moreso than the thought of trying to find parking. There's some sort of valet situation, as far as he could tell, but he'd rather die than let someone else have his car keys. Convenience means nothing if his car gets stolen. 

He didn't realize he was scowling until he caught his reflection in the mirrored wall behind the door. He quickly corrected his expression to something more neutral, and headed in to find Sasori. This house was mazelike, comprised of lengthy hallways connecting oddly-shaped living room to oddly-shaped living room. Avant-garde. He expected nothing less from… Kakuzu suddenly realized he has no idea whose party this is. The furnishings weren't really giving him any hints. Who didn't own a Lichtenstein these days? Same dark wood panelling as everyone else, same light fixtures. Well, whatever. 

The further into the hallway he went, the more people he was weaving between, muttering semi-polite “excuse me”’s as he passed. No one he recognized so far, but he didn't expect anyone he'd associate with to be standing in the goddamn hallway of all places. He suspected Sasori would be wherever the crowd’s thinned, maybe outside on some balcony. The music and the chatter were too loud for his taste, and he just _knew_ he’d be getting a headache within the hour. He'd be sure to complain about it when he found Sasori. 

No one attempted to engage Kakuzu as he crossed the oversized living room. He's not famous enough to be worth their time, and they're not important enough to be worth his. Those that noticed him shifted out of his path without comment. He didn't thank them. Somewhere in the endless succession of high-ceilinged foyers and postmodern room dividers and _noise_ was vaguely empty room, the highlights of which being a pool table and small bar. Kakuzu ended up there without meaning to, guided by the flow of the crowd. 

He ignored the pool table altogether, and turned to the bar. Sasori, perched on a too-tall barstool, noticed him, and waved lazily from his seat at the bar. He shot a pointed look at the clearly not-famous kid next to him, who got up and left wordlessly. Kakuzu sighed and sat, already exhausted by the atmosphere. He gestured to the bartender to bring him a drink.

“They're on the house, to let you know,” Sasori said, as he brought what appeared to be a can of ginger ale up to his lips. “I didn't expect you to come. Thought you hated parties.”

“I do,” Kakuzu replied bluntly. He offered no insight as to why he was here. Sasori didn't care enough to pry.

“In case you’re wondering, work has been absolutely awful.” Kakuzu, of course, was not wondering, but it was better to let him get it out of his system. “I said it before, a thousand times. Never work in television. And yet...”

“What was it this time?” Kakuzu asked. The bartender slid a glass in front of him, and he switched his focus from the middle distance to the slightly shifting ice. Sasori fiddled with the buttons on his coat sleeves, then knit his fingers.

“More control than the last one. And it's not a fucking sitcom.” He gestured with his ginger ale, flicking condensation on the table. “I deserve better than this, you know. I'm an _artist_ , not some _hack_.” _Whatever helps you sleep at night_ , Kakuzu thought.

Sasori rambled on about the injustice of it all, how he had better things to be doing than working on a goddamn soap opera. Had all that time and money sunk into film school been for nothing? He tapped his nails angrily against the bar, as if to punctuate his words. It had been better a few years ago, when he'd been directing that godawful science-fiction program— he had been allowed free reign, since it was going off the air at the end of the season. Those were the days. 

“But,” he let his head hang forward, finger tracing the rim of his soda can, “I was offered a movie just yesterday.”

“Were you, now?” It was hardly a question, and there was no curiosity in his tone. “I’m surprised you haven’t gone ahead with that.”

“They haven't sent over the information,” he said, “Just a quick phone call. I’m waiting on a fax over at the office.” 

“You know I don't care about your work in the slightest?” Kakuzu swirled the glass in his hand, making the ice clink together, just barely audible above the crack of the pool balls at the table behind them. He couldn't stand industry talk. Sasori’s particular brand of it he liked least. 

“Of course,” Sasori said with a sideways glance, “But when have I ever been considerate of your feelings?” 

Kakuzu dragged a hand down his face. “Let's skip the work talk entirely, how's that?” This was why they hardly ever saw each other. 

Sasori scoffed. “You wouldn't tell me about your job if I begged.” 

“There's not much to tell.” That, of course, wasn't true. Much of his work was strange and interesting but he was desensitized to it by now. That, and he hated talking about himself. 

“Sure, whatever you say.” He waved his hand flippantly. They both alternated taking sips of their respective drinks, without exchanging another word. Apparently the game of pool going on behind them had ended, and a new round had begun. Kakuzu listened in absentmindedly. He was not particularly familiar with the rules, though, so it was a bit hard to follow. 

“We have nothing to talk about,” Sasori said flatly. 

“Seems that way, yes,” Kakuzu replied, equally unenthused. He placed his now-empty glass back down on the bar, and stood up. “I’m going to get some air. Don't wait up.” He made for the door. 

Sasori called after him, “What, you're too good for me now?” Kakuzu didn't respond. 

He’s lost the second he leaves the room, swallowed up again by the party. _Why is this place so big_ , he thought, _Who's fucking house is this, anyway?_ He'd intended to ask Sasori, but it slipped his mind. Some sort of waiter skirted past him, carrying a tray of drinks. Kakuzu took one as he continued on. 

Whatever section of the house he was in, it seemed to be where the chattiest people gathered. If he stood still for even a moment, someone would (foolishly) try to start up a conversation. He could only be polite for so long before he snapped. To combat this, he tried to stay moving, searching for a way out of this area. He didn't hold anyone's attention for long since he wasn't a celebrity, so this method was rather successful. Didn't change the fact that this house was a labyrinth, and he grew more irritated by the second. 

Finally, defeated, Kakuzu collapsed onto a couch in some sort of small den. It was mostly empty, besides a few other people he suspected were also avoiding the crowd outside. They talked quietly amongst themselves, and for the most part left him alone. This was ideal. He sank back into the couch, finishing off his drink as he wondered how long he’d be here. If it were up to him, he'd leave now, but fighting the crowd again didn't sound too inviting. Sasori would come around eventually, he figured, and would probably show him the way out. 

Deep in his thoughts, he didn't notice when someone sat down next to him. A young, silver-haired man, wearing an absolutely hideous suede fringe jacket. He kicked his feet up onto the coffee table, reclining. Kakuzu vaguely registered that he was being spoken to, but didn't particularly feel like listening. 

“Look at all the fuckin’ poseurs out there, man,” said the man, as he threw an arm over the back of the couch, “What’re they even doin’ here? I'll bet you like, three-fourths of the people here weren't even invited.” Kakuzu hummed a noncommittal response, which seemed to satisfy the stranger. He waited a moment before continuing.

“Between you ‘n’ me,” he said, leaning over and lowering his voice, “I wasn't invited either. They left the fuckin’ door unattended.” He laughed, a sharp bark, then leaned away.

Kakuzu’s eyes were fixed lazily on some unmarked point beyond the door of the den, vaguely near where some idiot was table-dancing. The man followed his gaze just in time to see the idiot slip on a coaster, smashing his face on a cabinet on his way down. The man snorted, his drink slopping onto the floor as he bent over with cackling laughter.

“Did you see that, man?” He asked, almost breathless, yanking on Kakuzu’s sleeve. Kakuzu pulled his arm away, and the man threw him a look. 

Kakuzu sighed, “Yeah,” and the man returned to his previous amiable demeanor. He fished around in his jacket pocket, retrieving a slightly crushed cigarette. He reached back in, then patted his pants pockets, appearing to have misplaced his lighter. Knowing he would ask, Kakuzu pulled out his own lighter, wordlessly offering it to him. The man took it, lit his cigarette, and handed it back to him. 

Kakuzu really didn't want to deal with any of this right now, but the man didn't seem to pick up on that. “Who’re you, anyway?” He cocked his head to the side. “I haven't seen you before. You're not an actor, are ya?” Kakuzu didn't feel the need to explain himself, but he shifted his attention more toward the stranger, curious of what he might come up with.

“You look like… Maybe some sort of lighting guy? Nah, wait… what's the word? Cinematographer, for sure. How'd you get in here, even? Didn't think people like that got invited to these kinds of things.” He scooted a little closer on the couch, and suddenly his eyes lit up like he had an idea. “Are you some sort of, like, god of cinematography? Are you famous?”

“You jump to conclusions pretty quick,” Kakuzu said. He set his glass down on the coffee table. _Might as well entertain him_ , he thought, _Not like I was in the middle of anything_. “Private investigator.”

“A private— You’re a private eye? You?” The man gestured to him with his cigarette-holding hand, flicking ash onto his shirt. Kakuzu pointedly brushed it away.

“Yes. What of it?”

“You don't look it, ‘s all. You look like you work in fuckin’ advertising or something, man. Like you're late for a goddamn board meeting.” This was probably true. Kakuzu tried his best to look professional, but people had differing definitions of the word. Kakuzu’s happened to be ‘advertising exec, circa 1950’. 

Kakuzu took his wallet from his jacket pocket, and pulled out his investigator’s license. “Hows this?” He said, “This proof enough?” He shoved it hastily back in his pocket. “I'm off the clock, what do you want from me?”

“Whatever, man,” said the stranger, “But you gotta get yourself a trenchcoat or somethin’, like in the cartoons. How much business d’you attract lookin’ like you sell vacuum cleaners?” Kakuzu didn't watch cartoons, and didn't bother to ask for an explanation. What good would a trenchcoat do him? It was completely aesthetic, his suit jacket and overcoat worked just fine. His gaze returned to the middle distance, now loosely focused on a large-leafed houseplant. He wanted to go home. 

The man next to him rested his head on his fist, obviously not picking up on the “quit talking to me” vibe and continuing to focus wholly on Kakuzu. “So what's a private eye doing at this party, then?”

“An associate”— he hesitated on the word, not sure how to refer to Sasori (he'd asked once. Sasori had told him, “Just don't refer to me at all.”)— “Invited me. I do not want to be here.”

“Then why are you here, man?” There was genuine confusion in his voice, as though the man couldn't fathom that people do things they don't want to do sometimes. “You know we're not, like, locked in. You can just go.” 

Kakuzu sighed. “I can't find the door,” he mumbled, “I'm too tired.” Why he was saying this, which made him sound like a total idiot, to an absolute stranger, he didn't know. What he did know is that he was fucking exhausted, and he had to work tomorrow. This was all a mistake, for sure.

“Really, dude?” The man snickered, “You’re _lost_? You're a P.I. and you got lost in a fuckin’ _house_?”

“Fuck off,” he hissed, but his heart wasn't in it. The stranger hopped to his feet, and offered a hand to Kakuzu.

“Look, man. I've been here, like, a billion times. Follow me, alright?” Kakuzu nodded, but didn't take his hand. He rose slowly from the couch, straightened his jacket, and gestured to the door of the den. The man kind of frowned, then took his hand anyway and started pulling him out into the crowd. Kakuzu wanted to snatch his hand away, but then he’d risk losing him, and asking someone else to help him would be a hassle, so he left it there. 

He was used to naturally walking faster than other people, as tall as he was and as inconsiderate of the gait of whoever he's with, but he was having a hard time keeping up. The stranger was better at predicting the movement of the crowd, and dodged where Kakuzu ended up shouldering his way through. If he listened close, he could hear the man ahead of him laughing. _He's doing this on purpose_ , thought Kakuzu, _What a dick_.

Across the room, Sasori emerged from a hallway, having finally decided to give chase. He spotted Kakuzu almost immediately, resolving to stare at him until he noticed, but then he saw that Kakuzu wasn't alone. He followed the two with his eyes as they zigzagged across the room, and smirked to himself.

It was hardly even late, and the entryway was still packed with partygoers. At this point, the stranger was throwing elbows, fighting his way through with little regard for how Kakuzu was faring behind him. He threw a few glances over his shoulder, just to make sure he was still there even though he couldn't be bothered to clear a path big enough for the both of them. They both went stumbling out the door, and the man finally released his hand. Kakuzu again straightened his clothes, and thanked the stranger as he turned to find his car. He could vaguely hear the man shout something along the lines of “See ya around, I guess,” as he walked away.

\---

A day or so later, Kakuzu’s phone rang at the goddamn crack of dawn. The phone never rang that early. No sane person would think to call that early. Kakuzu threw on his robe, rubbing his palm against his eyes as he shuffled into the hall and picked up the handset.

“Did you have a nice time with Hidan Yu last night?” Sasori sneered. He wasn't worth a “hello”, apparently. 

“Who?” 

“You know, semi-famous actor,” Sasori said, the circular hand gesture he was making almost audible, “The prettyboy you left with?” 

_Ah, right. I wouldn't exactly call him a prettyboy, though_. Kakuzu sighed through his nose, and replies, “I didn't leave with anyone. He was just showing me the door.” 

“Right, right…” There was obvious dismissal in his voice, but Kakuzu would rather drop the subject entirely than waste time trying to prove him wrong.

“You know it's—” Kakuzu leaned around the wall and into the kitchen to check the time on the stove— “Nearly five a.m., right?” He tapped his foot impatiently on the hardwood floor, wishing Sasori would get to the point already. 

“I don't sleep. You're aware of that, I’m sure.” Though the line was delivered deadpan, his wry smile was almost tangible through the crackle of the phone. “Anyway, listen— I heard someone on set was looking for a private investigator, and I mentioned your name. I _know_ you won't mind because more job opportunities means more money, which is kind of your _thing_ , right?” Kakuzu rolled his eyes. Sasori, undoubtedly, picked up on that. “It's probably not urgent, but if you don't get down there today they'll hire someone else.”

“I’ll take the job,” he grumbled, and rested his forehead on the wall, “What time do you want me there?”

“Oh, I’ll be coming to get you,” Sasori said, as though that was the most obvious thing in the world, “Can you be ready by, say, seven?”

“Sasori, I can drive myself.”

“No, no, no. I will not have you wasting my time, wandering around the backlot. I’m driving.” There was no use fighting him, Kakuzu knew he would never win. 

“I— Fine, whatever. I’ll be ready.” Kakuzu hung up the phone and pinched the bridge of his nose. There was no point in going back to bed, he couldn't fall back asleep if he tried. He stayed next to the phone a little longer, collecting his thoughts, then wandered out into the kitchen.

He didn't spend a lot of time at home, and his counters could attest to that, spotless but dust-coated. His fridge was full of takeout leftovers, in various stages of decomposition. He reached for the first thing that wasn't too visually offensive, a half-empty Chinese food carton, and ate it cold as he leaned against the sink. Usually, he was given a few more details before taking a job. It wasn't completely necessary, but even he got curious from time to time. For the most part, nothing surprised him anymore. People were always less interesting than you would think, people in the film industry especially. When he’d first started— god, how long ago was that?— he’d often gone into jobs expecting some outlandish conspiracy, and instead was handed a simple stalking case. This job would, most likely, be no different. 

A couple hours later, Sasori’s tiny European car pulled up in his driveway. Compared to his own, it looked like a toy, and not even a cool toy (such as, say, the Evel Knievel Stunt Cycle. Don't ask him why he's up-to-date on the latest toys). Kakuzu saw him drive up through the kitchen window. He checked himself in the mirror one last time— he brushed his hair out of his face, and it fell back in place immediately, and he left it there. One more look around the house, to make sure everything was still in its place and he hadn't left any lights on before he left for the day. In the time it took for him to put on his coat and lock the door, Sasori honked at him about six times. He scowled as he climbed into his terrible, tiny car.

“Learn to hurry a little, won't you,” said Sasori. He looked more tired than usual, but Kakuzu wasn't one to talk, so he didn't mention it. He twisted around in his seat to set his small leather briefcase on the back seat. Given that there was no guarantee he would get the job, and generally not much work on the first day, he didn't necessarily need his briefcase. But he felt that it made him look more professional, more like he should. The stranger’s mention of a trenchcoat returned to him. Perhaps he had been onto something. 

Kakuzu had to hunch over his knees to keep his head from hitting the ceiling every time they hit a bump. If there was ever a time he regretted being as tall as he was, it was now. Sasori, the little insect of a man, seemed to have no problem with it. Kakuzu frowned.

“You should invest in an American car,” he said bitterly, “This is a fucking clowncar.”

“What, like yours?” Sasori scoffed. “Yours is _hideous_. I wouldn't be caught dead driving a monster like that.” He didn't appreciate the way Sasori didn't look at him when he spoke. And he knew, for a fact, that Sasori would look great behind the wheel of his Charger, if he'd only give it a chance. 

The rest of the drive was spent in relative silence, besides a few spare words exchanged here and there. Sasori’s eyes never left the road for a second, and his ramrod posture was odd, to say the least. Kakuzu had never seen someone look so serious about driving, and it pissed him off for a reason he didn't care to decipher. He fiddled with the levers on the seat, eventually managing to force it back far enough that his knees weren't lodged in his ribcage (“You better fix that when you get out,” Sasori spat. Kakuzu, pointedly, left the seat as it was). 

They parked some ways away from the set, in unlabeled guest parking. _So Sasori's not important enough to get his own parking spot_ , Kakuzu thought, feeling smug. As they walked through the lot, he tried to note anything that might be important on the case. He wasn't a naturally curious person, and so he had to go out of his way to remind himself that he should, in fact, be nosing around. Sasori wouldn't dare let him out of his sight, though, but it's just as well— he didn't even know the name of his soon-to-be client. 

“I have some business to attend to,” Sasori said, his hand hovering on the set’s door handle. He glanced back at Kakuzu, looking over the top edge of his tortoiseshell glasses, needlessly making sure he was paying attention, as though he'd ever known him not to be. “I believe the lead actor was asking for you— a private investigator, rather. Just get an intern to point you to the trailers.” He turned around completely, hand still draped on the doorknob. “Don't think you can just go off looking for him yourself,” he added, pointing an accusatory finger, “You'd be wasting your time. This place is a fucking maze. Just ask.” Kakuzu nodded, knowing it would end the conversation sooner. Sasori stared at him a moment longer, as he searched for proof of comprehension on his face. Finding it, he was satisfied, and turned back around to open the door. 

With uncharacteristically long strides Sasori hurried into the building, leaving Kakuzu behind as he rushed to his office. Kakuzu watched him brush off a series of interns nervously gesturing to their clipboards, before he turned to the first person in his immediate vicinity to ask about the lead actor. When he didn't receive an adequate response, instead something to the tune of “Who let _you_ in here?”, he flashed his license, quickly enough that they couldn't see he didn't _quite_ work for the police but enough to spook them. They directed him to a door on the opposite side of the building, out to a collection of white trailers in rows, and finally to the thin metal door of Hidan Yu. Kakuzu blinked at the little nameplate, as he wondered why the name sounded familiar. He suddenly recalled his conversation with Sasori that morning, and sighed. Well, at least the guy hadn't seemed like too big of an asshole at the party. He knocked lightly on the door. 

“Yeah?” came a voice from inside, muffled, “Who's that?” 

“Private investigator.”

“Wh— I didn't do anything recently— oh, right.” There was a shuffling sound, then the door swung open. Hidan leaned on the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He looked Kakuzu up and down, then an expression of recognition came over him. “Hey, you’re that guy from last night, right?”

“Yes, and are you going to let me in, or do I have to stand here all day?”

“Fuck, sorry, dude.” He stepped back into the trailer, allowing Kakuzu inside as he flopped down on a green velvet couch. Kakuzu remained standing. He set his briefcase on the first flat surface he could find— which took more than a moment of searching, and ended up being the floor. The entire trailer was a mess. 

“Sit, sit!” Hidan motioned to a hideous orange armchair across from him, half-covered by discarded clothing. He made no move to clean it off for him, so Kakuzu, reluctantly, sat down on top of the clothes. He moved his briefcase to his lap, opening it and retrieving a small notepad before setting it beside him.

“So, your case—”

“Wait, one thing first!” Hidan threw his arms out, gesturing to himself. “Do you for real not know who I am?”

“Does it matter?” Kakuzu didn't know most actors, and television actors were further from his area of expertise than the rest. He didn't care for television, so why bother learning faces and names he'd never need to know?

“I guess not,” he mumbled, crossing his arms again.

Kakuzu tapped his pen against the spiral binding of the notepad. “Good. Let's get on with it, then. Describe your ca—”

“I’m, like, _famous_ though! You should fuckin’ know, dude.” His tone skewed toward accusatory, and he slumped down in his seat, scowling.

Kakuzu leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Listen. I’d like to get to work here. You're wasting my time, time I could be spending on another case.” He jabbed his pen at the actor, earning him an indignant look.

“Hey! You have to be nice to me!” Shock, as though he’d never been spoken to rudely (which Kakuzu knew wasn't true, couldn't be true. Just _look_ at the guy). “This is, like, a fuckin’ job interview.”

“I don't need this,” he said, his eyes narrowing, “I can find someone else willing to pay me.” He straightened up in his seat, then glanced at the counter across from him, at a little wooden box half hidden under a crumpled script. “You’re aware those cigars are illegal, I’m assuming.”

“Th— they were a gift, man!” Hidan spluttered. 

“You can tell that to the authorities when they arrive,” said Kakuzu. He fought to conceal his smirk, instead folding his hands over his knee. Of course, he wouldn't dare call the cops, especially not for something so trivial, but a threat is a threat, and he used them freely and often. And of course, Hidan didn't know any of that. He shifted, making like he was getting up to leave.

Hidan’s mouth went slack for a second. “You—” he screwed his eyes shut and sighed— “Ugh, you're hired. I _guess_.”

Kakuzu clapped his hands together, and stood. “Wonderful. I can start today.”


End file.
